On grafton street in november,
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worst of passions pledged.
The queen of hearts still baking tarts
And I not making hay,
Well I loved too much; by such and such
Is happiness thrown away.

I gave her the gifts of the mind.
I gave her the secret sign
Thats known to all the artists who have
Known true gods of sound and time.
With word and tint I did not stint.
I gave her reams of poems to say
With her own dark hair and her own name there
Like the clouds over fields of may.

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet,
I see her walking now away from me,
So hurriedly. my reason must allow,
For I have wooed, not as I should
A creature made of clay.
When the angel woos the clay, hell lose
His wings at the dawn of the day.

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